


Good Neighbours

by ddagent



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Awkward Flirting, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 10:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Her neighbour's underwear is blown into her back garden. Unfortunately for Bernie Wolfe, her neighbour is Serena Campbell.





	Good Neighbours

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during NaNoWriMo. Rules were I wasn't allowed to post during November...but November is over and here's some stories! :D Happy reading.

Between a mouthful of bacon sandwich and a series of tepid electives, Bernie managed to catch a glimpse of the morning weather forecast. The (very pretty, Bernie could admit that now) weather reporter predicted ‘ _blustery winds reaching speeds of forty miles per hour’_ and _‘it’ll be a good day to do the washing’._ Bernie hadn’t taken much notice of that part. Living alone, she only did laundry when she absolutely had to. Her small back garden left little room for a line; sheets and socks and shirts were left dripping inside instead.

No, Bernie never gave much thought to laundry. Until someone else’s turned up in her garden.

A blouse: deep blue, with a small snag in the sleeve. A pair of black socks. A brassiere, plum in colour, and a matching pair of lacy knickers. Bernie had expected twigs or leaves or maybe someone’s rubbish to end up in her back garden. Not _underwear._ Stifling a yawn, Bernie picked up the knickers with two outstretched fingers. They certainly weren’t _hers_. They certainly weren’t Missus Carpenter’s next door, whose washing line favoured plain, white underwear. That left only one option.

Serena Campbell.

Throat bobbing, Bernie turned to the fence that divided 42 and 44 Canning Drive. _Serena Campbell_ , neighbourhood sweetheart. Had popped over when Bernie had first rocked up with nothing more than two boxes and an army duffel. Had held out a bottle of red and offered a smile and a chat whenever Bernie was free. But Bernie was _never_ free. So their relationship quickly devolved into small talk whilst putting the bins out, or when there was a mix up with the post. Once they’d waved to each other at a conference. Serena kept suggesting coffee and a chat. But Bernie never took her up on her offer.

Serena Campbell. Probably the most beautiful woman Bernie had ever seen. Beautiful, kind, and _very_ heterosexual. And now, on top of an already hopeless crush on her neighbour, Bernie knew _exactly_ what was underneath those low cut blouses, sensible trousers.

“ _Damn._ ”

The wind had blown trouble across Bernie’s path. Neighbourly life would never be the same. Gone would be her paltry attempts at imagination; her mind easily able to conjure Serena in a plunge bra and lacy knickers. Gone would be Serena’s easy tone and offers of coffee once they’d played out the embarrassing conversation of ‘ _here’s your underwear’._ For a moment, Bernie simply considered not returning them. Or, perhaps, waiting until Serena was at work and posting them through her letterbox. Then, at least, she wouldn’t know who had had them. Bernie immediately shook her head. _Awful, awful idea._

Huffing out a breath, Bernie admitted defeat. She _had_ to return them. It was the right thing to do.

Gathering the bundle of clothes in her arms, Bernie returned through her back gate and walked round to Serena’s front door. Number 44 was the pride of the street. Neatly painted front door (blue), welcome mat out front (please wipe your shoes), plant pots decorating the entrance way (mint and juniper). Number 42 was struck with peeling paint and a tarnished door knocker. Durable, but not the most aesthetically pleasing. _Like its owner._ Coming off a twelve hour shift, with a wind strewn bird’s nest atop her head, Bernie did not feel comfortable standing in front of 44 and its immaculate owner.

But, before Bernie could change her mind and come back another time, the door opened. Serena beamed, eyes shining, as she realised who was on her doorstep. “Bernie! What a pleasant surprise! Finally here to have that coffee?” 

“Sorry, no,” she said, stomach churning as Serena’s smile faltered. “ _I mean_ , I’ve just finished a twelve hour shift.”

Serena immediately understood, offering a wink; a conspiratorial signal between fellow surgeons. “No rest for the wicked, eh? So, if it’s not a coffee and a chat, what else can I tempt you with?”

Bernie thrust the bundle of clothes towards Serena. “Some of your washing blew into my garden. Thought I’d return them before they decided to fly away again.”

“Aren’t you sweet? Thank you, Bernie.” Serena took the offered clothes, looking through to see exactly what had blown next door. She paused, cheeks flushing, when she reached the lingerie. “I’m suddenly very grateful they blew into your garden and not Mister Thompson’s.”

Bernie made a face. If they’d blown into number 46, Serena would have never seen them again. “Well, you’re…you’re very welcome. No trouble...not really. ”

Bernie bowed her head, not sure what to do now that she had delivered the underwear. Glancing at Serena under a waterfall of blonde fringe, Bernie’s mind immediately picturing her in said underwear, was perhaps _not_ the right course of action. But something in her eyes seemed to amuse Serena; her lips quirking upward, her dark eyes brightening once more. She was … _breath-taking._ Bernie sighed. Why couldn’t she have moved into number 48?

“Well, thank you again. I’ll let you get some rest now.” Serena stepped back inside. But, before she closed the door, she turned to Bernie one last time. “You know, Bernie, next time you want to see my underwear you could just ask.”

By the time Bernie had thought of a response, she was faced with sleek blue paint and the number _44._ She stood atop _please wipe your shoes,_ jaw slack, not quite believing Serena’s words. _You could just ask._ Maybe one day, over the bins or post mix ups or another laundry mishap, she just might.  

After all, it was important to maintain good ties with your neighbours.


End file.
